


Lady's Favor

by The_Queen_In_The_North



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Choking Kink, Dirty Talk, F/M, Fluff and Smut, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smoking, Smut, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:35:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27677474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Queen_In_The_North/pseuds/The_Queen_In_The_North
Summary: On the night before the battle against the Others, Sansa Stark sneaks off to the godswood at Winterfell to smoke one of the maester's herbal cigarettes in an effort to ease her nerves. Little does she know someone intends to join.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 41
Kudos: 218





	Lady's Favor

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I'm perfectly aware that cigarettes are not a thing in ASOIAF. Let's set aside some historical accuracy (even in a fictional world) for the sake of the smut lol.
> 
> Enjoy!

There was a modest feast that night inside Winterfell’s Great Hall, for the morrow might bring death.

An hour had gone by, and her belly remained empty. She sat at the dais and pushed the food around her plate with her fork, unable to eat, unable to speak, unable to look at the dark haired man sitting across the hall.

 _I knew him once, years ago,_ Sansa thought, unable to deny the attraction she felt the moment he entered the gates that morning, the moment he reentered her life. They were mature feelings, the feelings of a woman grown, intimate feelings she could not fabricate for her late husband, nor any other man, no matter how hard she tried.

Sansa sighed and set down her fork.

The Great Hall was filled to the brim, the discordant sounds of drunken men shouting and tankards slamming down onto trestle tables all but driving her insane. Battle would ensue in a day’s time, and few shied away from making the most of what could be their very last night. 

She rubbed her temples. _If tonight is my last night, I refuse to waste it with an aching head and unsettled stomach._

That was wishful thinking. Being the Lady of Winterfell brought many responsibilities, and for each and every one, a lingering headache, not to mention little rest - very, _very_ little rest. It had taken its toll, much to her chagrin. She was longing to let go, longing for a release, longing to talk to the man across the hall. 

The temptation became too much. Sansa lifted her gaze from her plate and looked ahead, immediately meeting two grey watchful eyes.

 _Oh gods,_ she thought, returning her attention to the food that had now grown cold. _He caught me looking at him. Out of all the times I look, he’s looking back._ Her head was pounding, or perhaps it was only her pulse. 

She eyed her untouched chalice of wine and considered chugging it, but quickly decided against it. Wine would not bring her the release she was looking for. The last time she binged on wine to ease her mind, Sansa awoke the following morning dry heaving into a bucket until well past noon. 

It wasn’t until she stared at her plate and began to count the flakes of parsley did an idea come to her mind. 

One of Sansa’s many responsibilities as Lady of Winterfell was to frequently consult with the maester. And she, determined to be the best Lady the North had ever seen, took it a step further; Sansa was directly involved in getting to know the maesters craft, whether that be in the rookey with the ravens, or listening to the histories of lords and ladies from years past. Several maesters had come to Winterfell along with the northern nobles houses they served, but Maester Medrick, former maester of House Hornwood who now served House Stark, proved to be the most intriguing. 

Maester Medrick’s expertise was in herblore. On several occasions, Sansa observed him take a thin square of paper, pinch a particular herb on the surface, and roll it up into what he called a cigarette. He would place the tip of it over a flame and administer it to the wounded men. Somehow, inhaling the burning herb brought them comfort, both mentally and physically. 

_Very intriguing, indeed._

Sansa looked over to the left of the hall where the maester’s sat - all five were there. _The maester’s turret will be empty,_ she knew, feeling as naughty by nature as her little sister, Arya.

There was no use considering it any longer; her decision was made. Sansa rose from her seat, neither too quickly nor too slow, in an effort not to draw attention to herself. She would have been successful had her half-brother not decided to _finally_ stop chatting with the visiting Targaryen queen to be courteous.

 _Courteous and vexing,_ she thought as he stood up beside her, causing every eye in the hall to fall onto the dais. 

“Ah, Lady Sansa, will you be needing an escort?” Tyrion Lannister slurred from across the quieting hall, despite having a serving girl seated in his lap.

Her eyes dared to return to _the_ man across the hall. He caught her again, and this time he was crossing his arms over his chest, as if awaiting her answer.

_Oh gods oh gods oh gods._

Sansa quickly looked over her former dwarf husband and shook her head. “No, my lord, but thank you.”

The hall returned to its clamor, but before she could step off the dais, Jon reached out and took her hand. “You hardly touched your food,” he said, brooding at her plate.

“That’s not true,” said Sansa. _I didn’t touch it at all._

“Do you feel ill?”

 _You would have noticed that if you weren’t absolutely obsessed with Daenerys Targaryen,_ she wanted to say, but said instead, “No, I would like to retire early tonight, that’s all.”

He sighed, as concerned as if he were their father. “Sansa, if you want to talk about Harry-”

“Oh gods, no,” she said at once. The name of her late second husband only worsened her debilitating headache. “This is not about him, I swear it.”

Jon gave her a quizzical look but questioned her no further. “Sleep well, then,” he said, kissing her on the cheek before returning to his seat.

As Sansa stepped off the dais, she took one last glance across the crowded hall, only to discover the grey eyes were no longer staring back.

The man was gone.

Outside, the night was undeniably beautiful - a gentle snow, a delicate breeze, clouds that parted ever slightly to reveal the stars studded in the sky. With the Great Hall packed, the yard was left empty, and the relative silence brought her and her aching head a measure of relief. 

_A measure, but not enough._

The maester’s turret stood on the far side of the yard, standing out to her like a beacon. Sansa gathered her skirts, scurried through the snow, and slipped into the tower like a thief in the night. Breathless, she hurried up the spiral steps, stopping once she found the large wooden cabinet where Maester Medrick stored his various herbs and potions. 

There were fifty, maybe even more.

She took a tallow candle from the unorganized desk flooded with parchments and spilled ink and held it up to the display in front of her. Sansa tried to remember which jar Maester Medrick had taken from the cabinet when treating the wounded men. There were several, each containing buds ranging in color from white to green to orange to purple. She hadn’t noticed it before, but there were labels underneath each of the jars: ‘Purple Lys’, one was called, ‘Blood Orange Express’ was another, and ‘Seven Flames’ was the name given to the herb that was a deep shade of red. 

It was a guessing game, and Sansa did not have long to figure it out. 

_They’re all just herbs,_ she reasoned with herself. _The maester wouldn’t possess any that could do any harm._

That was _not_ convincing, not in the slightest. Just when she considered ending the reckless venture all together, Sansa spotted a jar on the highest shelf containing several pre-rolled cigarettes, some wrapped in dark beige paper and others wrapped in white, labeled ‘Lady’s Favor’. _That sounds promising enough,_ she thought, _certainly not as intimidating as ‘Seven Flames’._

Not daring to waste another minute, Sansa set the candle down and grabbed the jar. When she opened it, she was stuck choosing between the white rolls or the beige rolls. _Which color were the cigarettes he gave to the others?_ She tried to remember, but she was only wasting time - again. Sansa reached in, took one at random, and then returned the jar to its proper place.

As she descended the stairs with the cigarette clutched in her hand, Sansa felt a whisper of a thrill. It was similar to how she felt sneaking to the godswood in the Red Keep to meet with Ser Dontos, except now she no longer had to fear Joffrey hacking off her head should she be caught. Truthfully, she did not _have_ to sneak around her own castle. In fact, the maesters might have been more than happy to oblige her curiosity had she asked. 

Perhaps it was not only the herb she desired. Perhaps it was the thrill. Perhaps she wanted to engage in a bit of roguish behavior before she might die.

Upon exiting the maester’s turret, Sansa walked around the back of the tower towards the kennels, keeping to the shadows along the wall. She considered returning to her bedchamber inside the Great Keep, but that would certainly prove to be a mistake.

 _If I smoke this in my chambers, the scent will travel down the corridor_. _Even if Jon is too preoccupied to notice, Arya definitely will. At the very least, if I smoke outside, the breeze will carry it away._

She was doing a terrible job at convincing herself, but it was much too late to turn back now. 

Outside the library tower were two lit torches inside sconces posted on either side of the door. Sansa approached stealthily and stood on her tiptoes, placing the tip of the white cigarette into the fire.

“Oh!” she gasped when the flame kissed her index finger. She pulled away in response, nearly tripping over her own feet, but her work was done - the cigarette was lit. 

The godswood was only another ten paces away, and Sansa could not think of a better place to find privacy in the late evening hour. She covered the lit rolled paper with her hand and made haste, collapsing onto the ground once inside.

Once she caught her breath, Sansa pinched the little white cylinder between her thumb and index finger and placed it to her mouth, taking a slow, drawn out breath just like Maester Medrick had informed the men. It had a fruity taste, and to her delight, tasted a bit like lemons, but her lungs did not approve. As soon as she finished inhaling, Sansa erupted into a violent coughing fit, nearly dropping the cigarette right into the snow. Desperate to muffle the sound before someone might hear her, Sansa drew her knees to her chest and coughed into her gown. Her throat and lungs were burning, but the pain gradually subsided. 

_Perhaps this is my punishment for being sneaky in the first place._

By the time her coughing fit ended, tears had developed in her eyes. Sansa raised her head to wipe them away with the back of her hand, but discovered she was no longer alone. Someone was standing in front of her, someone large, their face hidden in shadow. 

There was a blur, and then the cigarette was no longer in her hand.

“What in the seven buggering hells is this?” the voice of Sandor Clegane rasped. 

Raw from coughing and smoke, Sansa’s throat prevented her from speaking, not to mention her knowledge of the Common Tongue escaped her. Sansa began to wonder if she was only hallucinating. _Perhaps that’s all this is..._

He crouched down in front of her, allowing the pale light of the moon to beam onto his face. The level of detail was too striking to be a hallucination. The distinct part in his dark, thin hair, the cracks that meandered along the black flesh on the left side of his face, the eyes that provided more than a whisper of a thrill, but a shout.

 _He’s really here_. _Here in the godswood, alone, with me._

The Hound held up the burning roll of herbs. “Little bird, what is this?” He sounded more distressed than he did angry. 

“I-I don’t know,” she squeaked.

“ _You don’t know_?” he asked, incredulous. The Hound placed the cigarette to his nose, took a whiff, then frowned. Just when she thought he meant to snuff it out in the snow, he placed it between his lips and inhaled. 

Sansa’s eyes grew wide, watching as the paper burned half an inch shorter. “What are you doing?”

His lungs were stronger than hers; the Hound only coughed once. He turned his head and blew the smoke smoothly through his lips. “I’m not letting you die alone. Don’t think I didn’t notice you sulking worse than that bastard brother of yours inside the hall. If this is lethal, we’ll die together.”

Sansa blinked at him, unbelieving, and then she laughed. “You’re mad.”

There was a suggestion of a smile playing about his face as he sat beside her, close enough for their legs to touch. “If I’m mad, what are you?”

“Longing.” Sansa cringed. _Why did I say that out loud?_

“Longing for what?”

Her hands were sweating, even in the chilly godswood. Sansa adjusted herself to sit on her knees and then smoothed out her skirts, subtly wiping away the perspiration. “Forgive me for not welcoming you upon your arrival,” she began, eager to change the subject. “I hardly have time to talk to anyone at all aside from my siblings and bannermen.”

The Hound handed her back the cigarette. When she took it, their fingers touched, kindling those mature, grown, intimate feelings. 

“You can welcome me now,” said the Hound.

Sansa looked at him, feeling a bit...different, a bit…euphoric. _He is more handsome than I remembered,_ she thought, captivated by his closeness, ensnared by his presence. Sansa had the sudden urge to lean in and kiss his nose. She loved his nose, large and hooked - _a man’s nose_. Sansa giggled, despite herself, humored by her thoughts. When he turned to look at her, no doubt wondering why she was laughing to herself like a complete fool, she abruptly said, “Oh...welcome.”

They both laughed at that, and quite animatedly, too. Had she ever seen him laugh like that? How long had it been since _she_ laughed like that? That euphoric feeling was blossoming, and then she felt a stirring in her loins, a fire flourishing deep within.

 _‘Lady’s Favor’..._

She considered the herb’s name, pondered what it might mean, and suddenly it made sense - _much_ more sense. Her hands were not alone in becoming damp. Something else did, too, that _something_ between her thighs. 

_Oh no._

Even when their laughter ended, Sansa could not get rid of the smile lingering on her face, nor could she squeeze her thighs together tight enough to suppress the throbbing down below. _Is he feeling it, too?_ she wondered. If he was, his face did not betray him in the slightest. Sansa was so preoccupied with staring at him, she almost forgot about the cigarette in her hand. It hadn’t killed her yet, and she was quite enjoying the sudden boost in her mood, the euphoria, even the tingling sensation between her folds, as vexing as it was not being able to do anything about it. Against her better judgement, she took another inhale, slower that time, and exhaled steadily through her mouth. 

The Hound watched her all the while; his grey eyes looked almost black.

After she passed it to him, their fingers grazing a little longer that time, he held it up and squinted. “So this is what you stole from the maester’s tower? A white stick of herbs?”

“I did not steal it,” Sansa lied.

“A poor lie. I saw how you skittered across the yard like the Others were on your arse.”

Sansa bit her bottom lip to stifle her giggle, but that did little good. She dissolved into laughter, carefree and undeniably flirtatious, unable to so much as open her eyes. At one point, she even leaned against him and giggled into his arm, feeling the strength of his bicep against her cheek, even through the thickness of the black woolen tunic he wore.

It felt good, _so_ good, and her laughs started to sound almost like whimpers, it was a desperate sound, something in the same class as a moan.

She straightened up when she came to her senses and quickly tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear, afraid to meet his gaze. It wasn’t until she heard him draw in a long breath did she look over and observe that he was not smiling, nor was he frowning either. It was a contemplative look, a chilling look, a predatory look. 

_He must be feeling it, too,_ she thought...she prayed. _He must._

Without a word, he placed the cigarette to his lips; no sight had ever been quite so seductive. She couldn’t help but stare in amazement as the smoke billowed out his mouth and swirled away in the velvety breeze. It was winter, yet somehow inside the godswood it felt like summer, clement and tranquil, deliciously warm. Sansa envied the little white cigarette, wishing it could be her mouth grazing his lips, or better yet, her...

“Cunt of a dwarf in there offered to escort you to your chambers,” the Hound scoffed. “Buggering fool.”

“Perhaps you should have offered, then,” Sansa quipped. 

“It’s not too late.” There was a hint of devilry in his tone, and it was almost enough to make her pounce into his lap. He handed her the herb and said, “Go on and put it in your mouth, little bird.”

 _‘Put_ **_what_ ** _in my mouth?’,_ she nearly asked, hopelessly frisky. _He shouldn’t tease me like this, it isn’t fair, not unless…_

She placed the cigarette into her mouth and inhaled one last time, while Sandor Clegane leaned back against the wall and stretched out his long legs. 

“How are you feeling, little bird?” he asked, once the smoke spiraled out her mouth. 

She handed him the shortened stick carefully so he wouldn’t burn his fingers, though her eyes were fixed on the conspicuous bulge stretching out along the top of his right thigh. “I’m feeling...” _aroused,_ she thought, **_so_** _aroused,_ “good. How about you?”

The Hound took one last hit, then flicked the remains of the white cigarette into the snow. “I’m feeling like I could fuck you all bloody night.”

Sansa lifted up her skirts and pounced, straddling his lap with an insatiable desire. 

“Gods,” he cursed, his large hands wasting no time in slipping underneath her dress and gripping her thighs. “What did you have us smoke, little bird?”

Her body had a mind of its own; she knew no bounds, nor did she know the meaning of shame. Sansa placed her hands on either side of his face and pressed her lips to his. How many times did she dream of a moment such as this? How many times did she lay abed at night and pleasured herself to the thought of his firm touch, his rough voice, his scarred lips caressing her own? A countless number of times, and yet not one of her fantasies could come close to the blinding thrill of _truly_ tasting him, _truly_ whimpering into his mouth, _truly_ grinding her sex atop the rock solid mound on his thigh. All that separated their union was her damp small clothes and his breeches.

Sansa would suffer it not one moment longer. 

“Take it out,” she whined against his mouth, before she might prematurely come. 

“Now who’s mad?” the Hound growled.

“ _Longing_ ,” Sansa corrected him with a coy smile, lifting herself onto her knees as he unlaced his breeches. Her body felt loose and comfortable and free - it was all she wanted tonight. _He_ was all she wanted tonight. He was all she wanted ever. The warm, blunt head of his cock brushed against her thigh, eliciting an eager whimper. 

“Longing for my cock?” he asked, his voice low and raspy, her _favorite_ voice. 

“Oh, yes.”

“Let’s hear you say it.” 

The Hound stared at her possessively, cupping the soft, supple flesh of her ass with both hands. He gave her a firm squeeze, and then he issued a quick spank, making her gasp and squeak with vicious delight. Sansa found herself wishing he had done it harder. One hand slid down between her cheeks and then pulled her small clothes to the side. 

If the herb had not already made her feel thoroughly wanton, the thick finger teasing her opening would have done the trick. Sansa clutched his shoulders and moaned without shame. As his finger slipped in and out, she could _hear_ how sopping wet she was.

“I want to feel you inside me,” she found herself saying, bucking her hips as his fingers spread the slippery juices up and down her slit. “I want you to come inside me. I want to _feel_ you come inside me.”

A low noise escaped him, more predator in that moment than man. Their eyes locked, red and irritated and ravenous. Sandor yanked her hips forward and flawlessly guided the head of his cock to her throbbing entrance. “Go on and make me come, girl,” he said through gritted teeth, making it sound like a threat.

Her loins were blazing, the thrill was screaming. Without ever breaking her gaze, Sansa lowered herself down steadily. As she sat on his rigid cock, her nipples stiffened against her bodice, savoring every inch as he filled her up, as he spread her wide, as he promised to deliver that release she was longing for. Neither she nor the Hound made a single sound as she mounted his shaft. Neither one of them were even breathing. It wasn’t until her folds were flush against the coarse hair surrounding his base did she whimper, “Oh gods,” just as the Hound groaned, “Oh fuck.”

The sensation was almost maddening, feeling her walls stretch and stretch and stretch to accommodate his girth. _It feels so right,_ she thought, clenching around him, making him moan, and then she decided to say it aloud. He deserved it, he deserved it all, he deserved to hear how badly she wanted him. 

“Sandor, you feel so good inside me.” 

He groaned into her neck, and then kissed and bit and sucked. _‘Lady’s Favor’._ Yes, it was. Without it, she would have never had the confidence to kiss him, let alone swivel her hips on top of him and moan each time his cock skimmed over that sweet spot inside her walls. She would have preferred to have been naked, to see all of him, to have him see all of her, but there _was_ something naughty and exhilarating about being fully clothed. If someone were to find them, they’d only see Sansa seated in his lap with her skirts draped over his legs. They’d never be able to see the entire length of his cock impaling her, nor the two massive hands spreading apart her cheeks as she moved round and round.

“Oh gods, I love your cock,” the ‘Lady’s Favor’ beseeched her to say. Sansa could no longer feel her face. She was numb all over aside from where Sandor Clegane touched - her sex, her neck, her ass, that was her world. “Oh, I love it _so much_.”

“You were made to ride on my cock,” the Hound growled, as brazenly explicit as her. He tossed his head back against the stone wall and shut his eyes tight. “Seven fucking hells, your cunt is so wet for me.”

Sansa stared at him as she rocked her hips, feeling her sex milk his cock in erratic intervals while admiring his scars. His jaw was taut and tight, and each time she squeezed around him his lips would twitch in response. Her hips moved a little quicker, so fluid, so natural, so innate. When he opened his eyes, catching her gaze much like he did in the hall, Sansa said, “I want to come, Sandor. Please, let me come.”

The Hound responded by forcefully snatching the square neckline of her dress with both hands and yanking down. Her round breasts spilled out, aching to be consumed. “So beautiful,” he said, almost in agony. Just the sight of her breasts on display before him was enough to make her want to come, but when he took one firm pink nipple into his mouth while rolling the other between two of his fingers, her body convulsed.

“Oh gods, yes!” she moaned, her head in the clouds, transitioning from swiveling on his cock to bouncing up and down.

The Hound covered the lower half of her face with one hand while continuing to fondle her breast with the other. “You’re chirping awfully loud, little bird.”

That was infuriating, until she discovered the pleasant sensation of not being able to breathe. 

_What_ **_did_ ** _we smoke?_

“Choke me.” The demand was an unintelligible muffle inside his palm.

Or so she thought. The Hound did as he was bidden, his heavy eyes gleaming with malice. “This is how I’m going to spill inside you.” His hand squeezed harder, constricting her air passages exactly how she wanted him to. “Wrapping my hand around your throat while you work my cock.”

That almost made her blush, even with his manhood buried inside her and her breasts bouncing in his face. “Don’t you dare come yet,” Sansa commanded, though her words were naught but a strained, pitiful plea.

He laughed throatily, the sound sending a shiver down her spine. Sansa’s walls contracted around him, eliciting a throaty groan. “With the way you’re jumping up and down my cock, I’m about to shoot my seed any bloody second.”

Unable to take much more of it herself, Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, witnessing colors instead of darkness. _Oh gods, now I_ **_am_ ** _hallucinating,_ she thought, not knowing whether it was a consequence of the herbs, the lack of air in lungs, or her body being joined with Sandor Clegane’s. 

With every rise and fall of her hips, the Hound’s hand clamped harder.

“Come for me, little bird,” he rasped in one heavy breath. “Come for me and I’ll let you breathe.”

She was in tears, _still_ desperate for more, but she did not know what it was that she wanted. She _did_ want to come, so, _so_ badly, but she also wanted him to toss her onto her back and spread her legs wide open in the snow. And then she wanted to dismount his cock and taste the juices she could hear squelch each time she hopped up and down. She wanted to do unladylike things, obscene things, _every_ thing, but the tighter his grip grew on her throat, the tighter her walls constricted around his shaft. 

Behind her eyelids, she saw stars, and then she was summiting. 

Only then did he let go, only then did he allow her lungs to be filled with the sweet air of the night. Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck as she rode out her release, curling around his body and moaning sharp, breathless cries into what remained of his left ear. She was shuddering, she was even crying, and then gasped when he seized her hips and controlled the pace. 

The Hound lifted her up and down as if she weighed no more than that white herbal cigarette, rising his own hips ever slightly to pound into her each time he brought her down. Her face was still nestled against his neck when he started to curse, and then his curses became a series of groans and grunts. 

“Yes,” she encouraged him, her voice a hoarse breath inside the godswood. She kissed his neck where the flesh had been blackened by flame. “Yes, yes, yes, come inside me.”

One last “Fuck!” fell from his lips before he slowed down the pace, gliding her back and forth on his cock as he spilled his seed into her womb. The sensation was irresistibly soothing, warm seed filling her as two hands rocked her in a slow and steady manner. She could have slept like that, outside in the snow with him inside her, she wanted to. 

_How sweet of a sleep it would be_ , she thought, becoming drowsy, so, so drowsy… 

She had fallen into a half sleep when Sandor slid his hands out from under her skirts and took her face. “Look at me.” His tone was demanding, yet troubling. Spent and lustful, yet almost sad. As her tired eyes met his, glazed and glistening ever slightly, he said, “Thank you, Sansa.”

Sansa wasn’t expecting that. She blinked at him, at a loss, unable to laugh. He was crying, she realized - that is, he was trying not to. _‘Lady’s Favor’. Could that be what he thinks this is?_ she wondered. _A favor?_

“You don’t need to thank me,” she sniffled. “I wanted to.”

He kissed her with a tenderness that had the same effect on her as all his bawdy words. Much as their bodies fit so well together, so too did their lips. They might have kissed for an hour, Sansa might have even begged him to take her with her hands and knees in the snow, but their time was cut short when she heard voices gathering in the yard as people began to exit the Great Hall. 

_The Guest Keep is just beside us,_ she thought, irked, _and someone is like to be drunk enough to stroll into the godswood by accident._

Begrudgingly, she broke away from his kiss. However long it had been since she entered the godswood, Sansa had smoked and laughed and moaned and cried, she even almost slept, and then another feeling came over her.

“Sandor, I’m hungry,” she whispered, kissing his nose. “Let’s sneak into the kitchens.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


She must have fallen asleep inside the kitchens, for when her eyes fluttered open to the sounds of steel clashing against steel out in the yard, she was inside her bedchamber, alone in her bed, without any recollection of how she got there. 

But she remembered Sandor Clegane, and she _vividly_ remembered what they had done. _Unless…_

_Oh gods, was it all a dream?_

When Sansa rolled over onto her side, still clad in her gown from the night before, she winced with pain. 

And then she smiled. 

She was sore everywhere: breasts, thighs, bottom, neck, and her sex - her sex most of all. Sore and tender, a beautiful pain. It had not been a dream, nor had it been a fantasy. Sansa _did_ lay with Sandor, _truly_. The memory made her smile, until she recalled some of the things that she had said. 

_‘Oh gods, I love your cock’._

Had that word ever passed her lips before last night? Even when married, Sansa had never given her late lord husband such praise. 

_It was the ‘Lady’s Favor’,_ she thought. _It made me say it._

Sansa grabbed the pillow beside her and smothered her face with it. _What will he think of me now? Gods be good, how will I ever speak to him now that I’m no longer intoxicated?_

Of course, Sandor had said _plenty_ of vulgar things himself, but when she recalled his words, they sounded nothing short of poetic.

She could hear Jon ordering men about in the yard, distracting her from her pleasant, titillating, thoughts. _I must find Sandor. Before the battle, I must speak with him._

Deciding against waiting for her chambermaid, Sansa ignored the fresh aches in her body and made to freshen herself up. When she undressed, she discovered that her smallclothes were still damp with his seed. _I should drink moon tea,_ she thought. _I should…_

She dressed in her most comely gown: black velvet with a grey fur trim, the bodice snug against her breasts, with a neckline some might argue was too revealing for a lady to wear. 

Sansa could not care less. She had already said everything there was to say to Sandor Clegane due to the herbs, and if the battle against the Others ended badly in half a day’s time, this would be her last morning. She would make the most of it - she must.

Once her face was washed, Sansa brushed her hair, pacing about her chambers instead of sitting in front of her vanity, until the last of the many tangles was brushed out. Afterward, she laced her boots, grabbed her gloves, and tossed her hair over her shoulder before making for the door. 

When she swung it open, she found Sandor Clegane standing inside the corridor with his arms crossed, unsmiling.

Her surge of confidence fled. “Oh, good morning,” she said, as shy as a maid. Sansa would have _sinned_ for one puff of ‘Lady’s Favor’ just then.

He took a quick glance at her bulging breasts before peeling away from the wall and lifting her chin with one finger. “Your neck is bruised.” The chill in his voice made her shiver. 

“I’m sorry,” Sansa blurted out, quickly draping her hair over the front of her shoulders. It didn’t hide much of her neck, but it _did_ hide the breasts she was so keen on flaunting for him.

“You’re _sorry_? Sorry for bruising?” He dropped his hand and shook his head, sighing. “Little bird…”

 _It’s not me he’s angry with,_ she realized then, _he’s angry with himself._

That helped ease her nerves, though she could not help but feel abashed about last night. If he remembered choking her, certainly he remembered that she _asked_ for it.

“Forgive me for being so…” What was the word she was looking for? Frank? Outspoken? _Absurd_?

Sandor cleared his throat. “That stick of herbs did a number on us both, girl,” he said, rubbing his chin. 

Sansa almost stumbled back. _He’s embarrassed,_ she observed, scarcely able to hide her glee. _Oh, he’s so handsome when he’s embarrassed._

She smiled warmly. Just when she made to tell him how perfect last night had been, every second and every touch and every word, she heard soft, slow footsteps padding down the corridor accompanied by the sound of a metal chain clinking.

_Oh no._

“Good morning, Maester Medrick,” Sansa said once the elderly man approached, feigning innocence, though her hands were already sweating. 

“Good morning, Lady Sansa,” the maester responded, eyeing Sandor warily. 

“This is Sandor Clegane,” she said, suddenly struck with an idea. “He’ll be the head of my household guard once the battle is won.”

Sandor’s gaze snapped towards her, visibly taken aback. The sight was so amusing, she nearly fell into another giggling fit, despite no longer being intoxicated.

The elderly man forced a lackluster smile. “Ah, splendid.”

“What is the purpose of your visit?” she asked kindly.

“Well, my lady, it appears someone stole from my inventory last night during the feast. I wanted to speak with you regarding having a new lock placed in the turret, given we survive the...” He trailed off and took a deep breath. “I would be most grateful if after the battle-”

“Of course, Maester Medrick,” she interrupted. “Whatever you need, you may request it from the blacksmith.”

“Very good, Lady Sansa.” He bowed his head, but rather than depart, he added, “‘Lady’s Favor’ is a very, very rare herb. However, I was humored to discover the thief stole a _white_ cigarette.”

Sansa furrowed her brow. “Oh? And why’s that?”

He gave a feeble laugh. “The herbs rolled with white paper are dormant herbs, my lady. At the citadel, we use them to test the effectiveness of the real herb. Aside from dry eyes and coughing, they do not have any effect when inhaled.” 

Her cheeks felt burnt from the sun, and no doubt they were as flaming red. Sansa covered her mouth with her hand and exchanged a look with Sandor Clegane.

 _It was not the ‘Lady’s Favor’ at all,_ she realized, watching a smirk develop on his face. Sansa giggled, and then she couldn't stop. _It was us the whole time. Only us._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
>  **Connect with me on** [Tumblr!](https://thequeen--in--thenorth.tumblr.com/)


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